The Glamour of Humanity
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: Castiel tries his hand at eating. Naturally, it does not go well. Cas/Dean friendship. Probably could be rated K but I guess it could turn your stomach if you have a weak one. Castiel's perspective added July 3!
1. Dean

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, and am making no money off this.

Summary: Cas tries his hand at eating. Naturally it doesn't go well.

This was originally a drabble for the E/O challenges, but I decided to expand it to, well, thirty times it original length. Cas's slow fall to humanity is something that seems pretty inevitable for next season, and it's something I look forward to seeing. What's more, it seems like every other fanfic is either Sam or Dean getting sick, so I figured Cas deserves a little 'love' as well. Oh, Supernatural. You guys are the most emetophilic fandom I've ever been a part of. Enjoy.

_The Glamour of Humanity_

Cas falls by pieces, which doesn't seem to follow the rules (but nobody's playing by rules anymore, anyway). Every morning when Dean wakes up, it seems that the angel is just a little more human than he was the day before. There's something altogether awkward and just _bizarre_ about it, but they deal. So Dean's not too surprised when one afternoon they're eating a late dinner in the motel, and Cas's stomach lets loose a resounding rumble.

Dean laughs, and beside him Sam does too, because if they don't think about the implications and instead just looked at Cas's _priceless_ expression of surprise, it's hilarious. It's not until Dean does dig a bit deeper that he sobers, recognizing hunger as one more big step towards humanity. He doesn't voice his concern though, because he knows everyone else is well aware. Instead he puts on a baby voice and cooes, "someone hungwy?" and smiles again as Cas glares.

"There is a sort of suction-like feeling in my abdomen," he reports, coming over to stand by them from where he'd been starting out the window by the door. "This is hunger?" Dean nods.

"It was coming sooner or later," Sam comments, shrugging, and Dean surveys the table before them. It's Chinese takeout, and it doesn't seem that moo shu pork or extra greasy chicken lo mein is the best choice for someone's first meal. Then Sam picks up a small container of plain white rice, and Dean nods again. It seems all right.

"Okay," he says brightly, "let's build up your strength, Cas." Cas holds his hand out for the container, and Sam gives it over. Then they both look at Dean. "We usually sit to eat," he adds, and the angel sits on the edge of the bed next to Dean, because Sam is in the only actual chair. Still gripping the container, Cas continues to stare at Dean.

"Okay, now these are called chopsticks," Dean informs him sagely, handing him a pair. "Hold them like… you don't know how to hold a pencil, huh? Put one between your thumb and your pointer, and the other under it, under your middle finger." Cas ends up with them both grabbed in his fist like the handle of a blade. "Maybe you're left-handed," Dean suggests, barely hiding a smile, but then Sam plucks the chopsticks from the angel's hand and replaces them with a plastic spoon.

"You're no fun," Dean complains. Sam sticks his tongue out. "Right. So," he continues. "Stick it in the box, and stick some in your mouth." Cas inserts his spoon into the rice with the rounded side up, getting no rice on, then puts the spoon in his mouth. Dean's beginning to think that if Cas had been born human, he'd have been the kid failing all his math tests because he's much, much better at following orders than he is at working with concepts.

"You want to get the rice into your mouth," Sam explains gently, once again robbing Dean of his fun. "Use the spoon like a shovel. Fill it about halfway." Clumsily, Cas gets a few pieces of rice into his mouth, and works out on his own that he should pull the spoon back out and close his lips.

"Um… chew," Sam prompts, but Cas just stares back blankly. "Crush it with your teeth," Sam clarifies. "Good. Now, swallow."

Cas blinks. Dean laughs, because he has no idea how Sammy's gonna explain this one. How do you coach someone human enough to need food, but not enough to have the suckling instincts? Sam grabs his drink and demonstrates, and after a long pause Cas gulps. He coughs, once, but seems all right.

"How you doin', Cas?" Dean asks. Cas purses his lips.

"This is humiliating."

"Oh, you just wait," Dean promises slyly, then stops, because he doesn't want to think about the rest any more than the angel does.

"Okay, well, you've got the hang of it," Sam says, breaking the tension. "Eat the rest."

Dean returns to his lo mein, and slowly, Cas eats his rice and drinks the water that Sam gives him. "You like it?" Dean asks after a while. Cas thinks, then reluctantly nods.

"I've heard reference to 'taste' but had never experienced it for myself. It's intriguing." Dean grins.

"It's _awesome_, innit? We'll get you some pie next." Sam glares, but he ignores him.

Dean's still trying not to think about what a hungry angel might mean for the big picture when out of the corner of his eye he sees the empty rice carton being set on the table. "You ate that whole thing, Cas?"

Cas cocks his head. "Sam said to 'eat the rest'."

"Yeah. Okay." But at the back of Dean's mind a voice is calling him stupid and saying that he should have told Cas to stop halfway through. But he pushes that voice aside too; the container isn't that big. "How's it feel?"

"It feels… different," Cas says slowly.

"Different-better? Like you're not hungry anymore?"

Cas frowns as he thinks, but doesn't come up with a clearer answer. "Just different."

"Typically you shouldn't feel anything," Sam pipes up helpfully. "If you do it means you're hungry or too full." As Dean could have guessed, this flies right over Cas's head.

"Don't worry, Cas, you'll get the hang of it," he assures him, but at that moment Cas's stomach gurgles audibly. Cas frowns, looking down at himself, and suddenly Dean's getting antsy.

"What's it feel like?" he prompts, thinking that this sort of frustration is usually reserved for new parents. Even if he'd essentially raised Sammy, Dad had still be there for _some_ of it. He's never had to try to work out the status of someone else's digestive processes.

"It's equally as unpleasant as hunger," Cas replies. "It's somehow difficult to stay still."

"I'm sure it's just gonna take some getting used to," Sam assures him. But then Cas lurches forward, frowning, and puts a hand to his stomach lightly, as though he's not sure that he should. Dean knows half by cues and half by instinct that something's wrong.

"Uh, actually… I think you're gonna be sick, Cas," he informs him, uncomfortably.

"Vomit?" Cas clarifies, as though he doesn't believe him, but the way that Cas is unconsciously shifting around on the bed makes Dean all the more certain. He stands, frowning when Cas doesn't.

"C'mon," he urges. "Last thing I feel like doing right now is cleaning puke outta carpet." But the angel remains unconvinced. Dean sighs. "It's like a pressure-y, shifty feeling?" he asks, and Cas nods. "You wouldn't want to eat anything right now, not even pie?" He shakes his head. "Cas. Come on," Dean says firmly, and finally Cas lifts himself gingerly out of the chair.

"I'll go gas up the Impala," Sam volunteers, standing as well. He and Cas still aren't exactly best friends, and though Dean isn't sure how to handle this on his own, it still sounds good to him, for Cas's sake, that Sam won't be there

The angel follows Dean to the bathroom, letting himself be ushered in first.

"Uh…" Dean swallows, leaning against the doorframe. "Should I stay, or give you some privacy?" By rights as a big brother he should be an old pro at this, but he's a little rusty, and not sure what Cas is thinking. But when the angel says quietly, "I'm not sure what I need to do," he takes it as a _yes, stay._ Cas's face has gone tight and sallow, and though it carries no expression Dean can still tell that he's afraid.

"It's no big deal," Dean assures him, and for Dean himself, it wouldn't be; a lifetime of truck stop food and gory visuals has left him no stranger to puking, and usually he just takes care of it by the side of the road and moves on with things. But, he realizes, he can't imagine how frightening it must be to go through it with no idea of what's going on, so when he continues his voice is as gentle as he can make it. "You just need to kneel down, Cas."

Cas kneels on the spot.

"Over the john," Dean directs, and Cas shuffles over to where he's told. The bathroom is so small that Dean steps into the bathtub and takes a seat on the edge, legs facing in, swinging the door shut behind him.

"Remember taste?" He asks, feeling like he's talking to a two-year-old, and not an angel of the Lord. Cas nods. "When you puke, it's gonna taste bad," Dean tells him, thinking of anything he can say to help prepare Cas for what's coming. "But it's not gonna hurt."

Cas gives him a _look_, cocking his head slightly. "I'm not afraid of pain, Dean," he reminds him coolly, and for a minute, Dean feels dumb.

"I know," he backpedals. "I just want you to be ready."

"I just wanna finish. This is wasting time," Cas says flatly. But Dean's pretty sure it's at least half bull, because the angel is starting to sweat, and he doesn't hold eye contact for as long as usual. What's more, Dean notices, he's swallowing spasmodically.

"Lean over," Dean orders, and Cas does, but his lips stay pursed. Dean tries not to sigh, remembering how he's decided to be the epitome of sympathy throughout this ordeal. "You need to open your mouth, Cas," he prompts, and after a beat the angel does so, looking awkward. "Breathe really deep," he adds, hoping that maybe this will speed things along.

Dean's not sure exactly how to describe the moment when nausea turns to _oh-my-god-I'm-really-gonna-blowrightnow_, so instead he just waits, staring at the mildewed tile of the shower wall and tapping his heel on the textured tub floor. There's a definite tension in the air that tells him Cas is feeling equally impatient, and he almost laughs at the whine in Cas's voice when the angel asks, "how long does this usually ta--"

But at that moment he gets his answer, and Dean turns his head in time to see puke that looks unpleasantly like watery rice pudding go splattering into-- and onto-- the toilet in one short, swift wave.

For a moment neither of them moves: Dean because he's beginning to get very uncomfortable with the whole taking-care-of-an-angel situation, and Cas because he looks scared to death, his breath coming in pants, his face the very portrait of shock. Then he blinks, releasing two streams of reflex tears, and the spell on Dean breaks as well because angel or not, Cas looks absolutely, heart-wrenchingly pathetic.

"Does your stomach feel better?" He asks gently, knowing he's been made a liar, because Cas is visibly in pain.

"Not by much."

"Gonna puke again?"

Cas thinks about it, nods, and then does, aiming slightly better this time and getting nearly all of it in the bowl, for which Dean is grateful. When he's finished, he sits back on his heels, and Dean can tell that he's working hard to regulate his breathing. He keeps one hand on his stomach, one hovering near his mouth, like he's determined to hold the nausea back, to not be sick again.

Dean climbs delicately over him to the sink, where he fills a cup with water and plucks a tissue from the dispenser, then returns to his seat and hands both to Cas. "Wipe your mouth, then take a drink," he tells him, and Cas does. But Dean forgets to warn him about sipping and Cas downs the glass in one go. Dean winces, cursing inwardly at his oversight, because sure enough, less than a minute later, Cas spits the water back up.

This time he's is caught off guard again-- he must have thought that he was finished-- and he leans forward a second too late, getting a splatter of puke down his shirt. Dean knows enough to be thankful that it's mostly water, but Cas looks abjectly miserable anyway. This time he stays bent forward, and even when he's finished retching, his shoulders don't stop jerking, as though in response to tiny shocks. If Dean didn't know any better he'd swear that the angel was about to cry, and the thought turns Dean's own stomach more than the sight of the rice-y puke ever could.

Either way, though, it's clear that he is now fully, functionally taking care of Cas, so when he's sick for a fourth time, Dean reaches over and rubs the angel's shuddering back in small, slow circles. This time almost nothing is left to come up, but Cas still doesn't move when he's finished, head thrust over the bowl, both hands gripping the rim. He stays there while Dean refills the glass, and has to be pushed gently back to his heels.

He stares suspiciously at the water when Dean holds it out to him, and of course he can't be blamed for that. "Just rinse your mouth this time," Dean tells him, then adds as an afterthought, "you're doing great, Cas."

Cas frowns, as though the comment were meant as an insult, but doesn't argue, and swills and spits a mouthful of water before setting the glass gingerly on the floor.

"I think it's finished," he announces, and he says it so firmly that Dean believes him for a moment. But then his knees buckle as he tries to stand and he falls back on his butt. Dean knows from experience, and the look on his face, that his head is spinning, probably stomach too, and this is confirmed when he begins to gag again, although there's nothing left to come up. And, boundaries be damned, Dean finds himself crouching on the floor next to the angel, one hand rubbing his back again, the other squeezing his shoulder.

Cas squirms, trying to get back to the toilet, but Dean knows he doesn't need it, and tells him so. "There's nothing more to puke, Cas," he says quietly. "It's okay. You can sit."

Cas seems to take that invitation as permission to panic as well. Through it all he says nothing, face staying nearly calm, but his heaves have turned into deep, rapid breaths and his heart is racing so fast that Dean can feel his pulse under the fabric and skin on his shoulder.

"It's okay, Cas," Dean soothes, and by this point he doesn't even have to pretend that he's talking to Sammy. "You're not gonna get sick again. Just relax." And because his own tired knees are beginning to complain, Dean sits too, just inches of space from Cas. Cas stays unmoving, once again audibly trying to time his breathing. After a moment he seems calm enough that Dean is getting awkward again and, stupidly, chuckles and says, "humanity's so _glamorous_, innit?"

It's the worst thing he could have said. Cas's back starts going again, but Dean can't tell if he's heaving or worse. He bows his head, mouth slightly open like he expects to puke yet again, but all that comes out is a short involuntary moan.

Dean scrambles, back on his heels, reaching for Cas's shoulder then taking his hand away again, losing himself in a flurry of useless, frantic motion, none of which the angel reacts to in the slightest. Finally he stands, fully meaning to walk out and give his friend a modicum of privacy for the first time that night; instead, though, he finds himself pulling another tissue from the box and crouching back down again to hand it to Cas. "Wipe your eyes," he says gently, surprisingly himself, because he hadn't known for sure that Cas was crying, at least not consciously.

Cas takes the tissue and rubs it clumsily over his closed eyes, as though he's following directions without understanding their intent-- which, of course, would be quite in character. Dean has the sudden urge to take the tissue and do it for him, but that's just too far over the line, so instead he sits and replaces his hand on the angel's back.

"You're okay now, Cas," he assures him, hoping with all his might that his friend's tears will stop. "This is all gonna take some getting used to. But it won't be that bad again." He hopes as well that this would prove true.

Cas nods, slightly more in control now. "That was extremely unpleasant," he deadpans. Dean has to smile at that.

"Think you can stand up?" Another nod. Cas lets Dean help him to his feet and slowly he shuffles out to the main motel room and deposits himself on a bed. Across the room, Sam is back from his gas run but doesn't look up from his laptop as they enter; the stillness strikes Dean as pointedly deliberate.

"Don't sit, lie down," Dean orders, and Cas does, curling instinctively on his side, knees bent, facing the wall. "How do you feel?"

"Corporeal," Cas answers after a moment of thinking, sounding like the tears aren't far from coming back. "I'll need to eat again tomorrow."

"Yeah," Dean admits, leaning with his arms crossed against the wall. "Maybe we should try baby food or something."

"I liked rice," Cas muses, "at least, I thought I did." And Dean has to laugh because it's so something that Sammy would've said as a kid. Then he sobers as he glances at the angel's face.

"You'll get the hang of it soon," he promises. "And wait 'til you do. Eating's great, Cas."

"I don't _want_ to derive pleasure from such a physical experience."

"Hey, trust me," Dean drawls. "You take the pleasure where you can." To that, Cas has nothing to say.

A long moment passes, and Dean yearns for a way to break it, but comes up empty. Finally Cas says quietly, "Dean?"

"Mm."

"I think I'm fallin' asleep."

Again that heart-breaky, protective urge swells up in Dean's gut, still an unexpected response to the angel's voice. He's been wondering about that, because if Cas has gotten to the point where he needs food, sleep seems a logical counterpoint, and there are few things quite so exhausting as a pukefest.

He says none of this, though, far too tired himself, far too under-qualified to be advising an angel, and instead he tells Cas, "close your eyes and find out."

Dean waits to see what the outcome will be, and when Cas still hasn't replied five minutes later, he takes that as his answer, and wearily turns to face the task of cleaning up after his angel.

* * *

_BONUS_

_I was originally going to post the drabble as well, but since I finished this before the deadline for the drabble challenge, I figured I should go ahead and post it. But I felt bad to think of the drabble just wasting away in my hard drive, so here it is. Prompt was "time"._

Dean's there the first time he eats, just rice and water, starting slow.

Dean's there the first time he's sick, body rejecting even the blandest of foods.

Dean's there the first time he panics, heart racing, breath gasping, because nothing's where it should be-- not Heaven, not Hell, not the contents of his stomach-- and how is it that something as interesting and pleasant as taste should backfire, leaving him sputtering and choking helplessly at the _bitterness…_?

And Dean puts an arm around him the first time he cries, overwhelmed, curled up on cold tile, feeling far, far too human.


	2. Castiel

Disclaimer: see first chapter.

It's my birthday; I'm 20! Wow. So here is my present to you, _The Glamour of Humanity _as seen through Cas's eyes. Perhaps your present to me can be some reviews? :)

_The Glamour of Humanity_

_(Alternative POV)_

It takes Castiel a moment to work out what's going on. He's staring out the window, standing by the door, when a cacophony of sharp and earthy smells overwhelms him. He doesn't outwardly react, but feels his mouth become wet. Odd. He's going to ignore it entirely when suddenly a loud, somewhat vicious growl sounds, accompanied by a pulling sensation in his abdomen. Instinctively, he freezes. But across the room, Dean and Sam are laughing.

"Someone hungry?" Dean asks, his tone unacceptably mocking. He grins. Castiel can't help but glare at him, although he supposes he can understand the origins of the human wanting to make everything a joke. But the ache in his stomach feels decidedly serious.

"There is a sort of suction-like feeling in my abdomen," he reports, crossing the room to join the Winchesters. "This is hunger?"

Dean nods. "It was coming sooner or later," Sam agrees.

Castiel watches, slightly on edge, as the brothers examine the array of food on the small table. He knows what they mean for him to do-- join them in their meal-- and every part of him resists the notion. The process of _eating_ seems a messy, inefficient, and unappealing one, not to mention that it is very unlike an angel to do so.

But it is also very unlike an angel to _need_ to do so, and Castiel knows that his response is inappropriately emotional. He has chosen his side in the war, and if it means that he will become humanized enough to require food, then so be it. If this is true, there is no way around it. What's more, it's what Dean is telling him to do, and Castiel cannot refuse that.

So when Sam holds a white carton out to him, he takes it. It is filled with a plain grain, far less colorful and scented than any of the other food on the table. Though he of course has never experienced it firsthand, Castiel recognizes it as rice. The question now is what to do with it. He looks at Dean.

"Okay," Dean says, "let's build up your strength, Cas." He pauses. "We usually sit to eat," he adds. Though he is not yet so human that Castiel needs to rest his legs, he sits on the bed next to Dean. Nothing happens. He waits for instructions. Then Dean grins.

"Okay," he says again. "These are called 'chopsticks'." Castiel accepts a pair of pale wooden sticks, smooth to the touch, that are both tapered to a dull point on one end. "Hold them like… you don't know how to hold a pencil, huh? Put one between your thumb and your pointer, and the other under it, under your middle finger." The middle finger Castiel identifies by logic, but which finger Dean means by 'pointer', he doesn't know. He pinches one between his thumb and its neighbor finger, then presses the other into his palm with his middle finger. The wood is slick and this feels clumsy, so he wraps his two unoccupied fingers around both sticks. They cross awkwardly. He looks back at Dean.

"Maybe you're left-handed," Dean tells him, and Castiel is about to argue when he feels the sticks slide out of his hand. He looks over to see Sam smiling, handing him what looks like a tiny plastic shovel. "You're no fun," Dean tells him. Sam shows Dean his tongue. Meanwhile Castiel is still lost.

Dean continues. "Right. So. Stick it in the box, and stick some in your mouth." Castiel inserts the tiny shovel into the box, then pulls it back out and puts it in his mouth. Dean sighs.

"You want to get the rice _into_ your mouth. Use the spoon like a shovel. Fill it about halfway," Sam informs him. Castiel looks over at him again. Although it will take a long time for Castiel to trust the younger Winchester, at the moment he is beginning to like him just a bit more. He does what Sam tells him to, using the concave section of the 'spoon' to transport a portion of rice to his mouth. Knowing that he will have to reuse the implement, he reasons that he should remove it from his mouth, keeping his lips together so that the rice stays in place.

"Um… chew," Sam says. Castiel stares at him. "Crush it with your teeth," he clarifies, and Castiel does so. "Good. Now, swallow."

The word is not new but Castiel has no concept of the physical action that it corresponds to. Truthfully, he's growing frustrated. Likewise, Sam doesn't seem sure of how to proceed. Finally he picks up his glass of water and takes a drink. Castiel watches closely how he forces the contents of his mouth down his throat, and takes it to be what he should do. After a moment his muscles consent to their assignment and he feels the crushed rice sliding down his esophagus. The unfamiliar sensation elicits a brief cough and suddenly Castiel is overwhelmed at the reality of the food entering his body. He'll gain nutrients from it, he knows, which will help fuel his body. This shouldn't be necessary. He wishes it could stop.

"How you doin', Cas?" Dean asks.

"This is humiliating," he answers quietly.

"Oh, you just wait," Dean replies, and Castiel is suddenly afraid of the implications. He's glad when Sam speaks up.

"Okay, well, you've got the hang of it. Eat the rest."

Castiel still doesn't like the idea very much, but he knows an order when he hears one. Slowly, patiently, he consumes the rice from the container, along with water that Sam gives him. Though he hates to admit it, the sensation of taste is a pleasant one, rather like an intense version of smell. The taste of rice reminds him of the smell of earth and rain.

"You like it?" Dean asks after a period of silence. Castiel hesitates before reluctantly nodding.

"I've heard reference to 'taste' but had never experienced it for myself. It's intriguing."

"It's _awesome_, isn't it? We'll get you some pie next." Dean is grinning, but Castiel is torn between his revulsion towards eating and his curiosity at what other tastes might be like. He doesn't ask, but returns to his rice. He can see the bottom of the carton now, and the thought of all of that rice now residing inside of him makes him uncomfortable. His stomach, though briefly feeling assuaged, has now begun to ache again. Perhaps he's still hungry? He continues. When finished, he places the empty container on the table. Dean contemplates it.

"You ate that whole thing, Cas?"

Castiel doesn't understand the human's question. "Sam said to eat the rest."

"Yeah. Okay. How's it feel?" Castiel thinks before answering.

"It feels different."

"Different-better? Like you're not hungry anymore?"

Truthfully, he has no idea. "Just different."

"Typically you shouldn't feel anything. If you do it means you're hungry or too full." This means nothing to Castiel, and he looks to Dean for translation.

"Don't worry, Cas, you'll get the hang of it," Dean assures him, but at that moment Castiel's stomach growls again. The noise is accompanied by a sudden, sharper ache. He looks down at himself, growing slightly nervous. Though he's not sure what, something doesn't seem right.

"What's it feel like?" Dean asks again.

"It's equally as unpleasant as hunger. It's somehow difficult to stay still," Castiel reports, because suddenly it is. The only thing that seems to lessen the newly strengthened ache is to shift his weight on the bed. He wonders if perhaps he should stand, walk about.

"I'm sure it's just gonna take some getting used to," Sam says, but suddenly the pain grows worse. Castiel puts a hand to his stomach, curious if he can determine the cause of the problem with his fingers. Nothing is out of the ordinary under his touch, but the action reminds him of the rice now inside of him. A shudder runs through him.

"Uh, actually," Dean says, and Castiel doesn't like the mood of his voice. "I think you're gonna be sick, Cas."

Castiel knows of the concept, but his mind wildly rejects it as a possibility. "Vomit?" he clarifies, unwilling to believe it.

Dean stands. "C'mon. Last thing I feel like doing right now is cleaning puke outta carpet." But Castiel stays put, clutching his stomach, unwilling to listen. How can he _be sick_? He's fine. More than fine, he is an _angel_. It was bad enough that Dean forced him to eat, and now the human is telling him to vomit? But Dean seems determined to convince him.

"It's like a pressure-y, shifty feeling?" he asks, and that sounds familiar, so Cas nods. "You wouldn't want to eat anything right now, not even pie?" Absolutely not. No food again, ever. He shakes his head. "Cas. Come on," Dean says again, and it's an order this time. Slowly, nervously, Castiel stands. Sam tells them something, leaves, but Castiel pays him no attention, simply following Dean to the bathroom and letting himself be pushed inside. This can't be happening, he tells himself, but _something_ definitely is.

"Should I stay, or give you some privacy?" Dean's voice says from behind him. Now in addition to the terrible aching, Castiel can feel panic in his stomach as well.

"I'm not sure what I need to do," he replies, hoping desperately that Dean will stay, will tell him.

"It's no big deal," Dean says confidently. "You just need to kneel down, Cas."

Castiel kneels on the spot.

"Over the john," Dean directs, gesturing at the toilet. Castiel goes where he's told and Dean closes the bathroom door, taking a seat on the edge of the bathtub.

"Remember taste?" Dean asks, and Castiel nods. "When you puke, it's gonna taste bad, but it's not gonna hurt."

Castiel glares, angry at Dean that he would insinuate a fear of pain, angry at himself that he had in fact been wondering. "I'm not afraid of pain, Dean," he says firmly.

"I know," Dean says, though he doesn't seem convinced. "I just want you to be ready."

"I just wanna finish. This is wasting time," Castiel tells him, and it's true, but he also wants to finish so he can pretend that it never happened. The feeling in his stomach has been growing steadily worse and there is a sense of urgency, as though something must happen very, very soon. In addition to this, his mouth is watering as though with hunger, but he's not at all hungry. It's incredibly frustrating.

"Lean over," Dean orders, and he does so, positioning himself over the opening of the toilet. "You need to open your mouth, Cas. Breathe really deep." Castiel does these things too.

He can hear Dean's foot tapping and it feels as though his stomach is beginning to jump inside of him. Castiel isn't sure how much longer he can stand the wait. "How long does this usually take?" He begins to ask.

But then, cutting off his last word, he vomits.

It's an absolutely ungodly sensation, unlike he ever could have imagined. Partially digested rice and water shoot out from between his lips, hot and pungent on his tongue. It lasts only a few seconds but when it ends his throat feels like it's on fire and it hurts to breathe. He looks in front of him, sees his vomit covering the floor and the rim of the toilet, and shame washes over him, mixing with the panic. His head is pounding and he wishes Dean weren't there. Then, further contemplating the idea of being alone during this, he decides that he is glad of the company. Every part of him seems to hurt and he freezes in place, feeling illogically afraid of the vomit coming again, of the uncontrollable force of its expulsion. His eyes water. He shivers once, then finds that he can't stop.

"Does your stomach feel better?" Dean asks from behind him. His voice is gentle and though Castiel would normally dislike the tone, at the moment, he relishes its presence.

"Not by much," he replies. It hurts to talk.

"Gonna puke again?" Dean asks, sounding sympathetic. Castiel considers it. Despite what he's told Dean, his stomach doesn't feel different in the slightest, and none of the terrible urgency has dissipated. What's more, there's a taste in his mouth that's ten times as bad as the rice was good, and that's only fueling the urge to vomit again. So he nods, leans over, and opens his mouth. His abdomen feels like it's jumping again, and the instant that it does, another torrent of vomit bursts forth. Nearly all of it splashes into the bowl this time, making a disgusting sound that, so close to the toilet, he can hear perfectly. He coughs again and a little more comes up, filling his throat, but when that's finished he suddenly realizes that he does in fact feel a certain amount of relief.

Surprised, pleased, he sits back on his heels. One hand is on his stomach, because pressing against it makes him feel even better, and the other Castiel holds aloft, because he's not quite sure where else to put it. There's an instinct to breathe very fast and deep, now that he's done with being sick, but he remembers how that made it worse before and forces himself to breathe evenly, slowly.

Dean appears beside him with a glass of water and a piece of paper which Castiel has to think about for a moment before remembering that it's called a tissue. He takes both when they're handed to him. "Wipe your mouth, then take a drink," Dean tells him, and Castiel does so. He feels cleaner when he removes the traces of vomit from his lips, moreso when the water helps take the taste away. In fact, it feels so good to have that wretched taste gone that Castiel drinks all the water he can, and there's a strange sensation of coolness in his stomach after he swallows. Relieved, he sits for a moment, almost embarrassingly happy to be done.

Then something rises in his throat again, but it feels different this time; instead of burning, it's almost cold, and it's not accompanied by that terrible, now-familiar taste. Because of this, Castiel doesn't realize that he's going to vomit again until it happens, and despite his reflexes he doesn't lean over the toilet bowl quite fast enough. He can feel wetness on his shirt and understands that he's made a mess of himself. Terrified to move away from the bowl lest it happen unexpectedly again, he just freezes there, head bent, mouth open. Every muscle in his body seems to be trembling, and he wants to move, or make a noise, or _something_, but he does nothing because it seems like anything can set it off.

Despite the fact that he stays perfectly still, the terrible swelling sensation hits his stomach again and for a fourth time he gags and expels a stream of bitter liquid from his mouth. Significantly less comes out this time, but for some reason that just makes it more painful. All he's aware of is the sting of his throat and the pounding in his head, until suddenly there is a warm, unexpected pressure on his back. He realizes that it's Dean's hand and, surprisingly, he doesn't mind. It's new enough and odd enough that it draws his focus away from the heaving that hasn't yet stopped. Maybe if he keeps his attention on that, he'll be better able to handle another attack. To steady himself, he brings both hands up and grips the bowl, waiting to vomit again.

A minute later, though, he still hasn't, and then Dean's hand disappears from his back and he feels himself being pushed gently away from the toilet. He hesitates, not wanting to be sick on his shirt again, but Dean is insistent. Nevertheless, Castiel still doesn't want to do what Dean tells him when Dean holds out another glass of water. A few minutes ago, when he'd thought it was over for the first time, water had done nothing but make it worse. But Dean realizes this. "Just rinse your mouth this time," he says, then adds, "you're doing great, Cas."

Castiel frowns at this; Dean's tone of voice is far too patronizing. He is not 'doing great'. He is miserable, vomiting endlessly, creating a putrid mess. He takes the glass, fills his mouth with water, then spits it out into the toilet only so Dean will be placated. Then, exceedingly tired of this whole affair, he announces, "I think it's finished," and pushes himself to his feet.

His attempt at proving himself fails, though, and he immediately finds that his legs cannot support him. Instead he crashes back to the floor, and the motion intensifies the pain in the head and reawakens the discomfort in his stomach. Castiel tries not to groan as he once again begins to heave. How long can this reasonably last? He lurches for the toilet.

Then Dean's hand is on his back again, the other on his shoulder, holding him gently down. "There's nothing more to puke, Cas," he says quietly. "It's okay. You can sit." But Castiel's breathing just gets more wild, more out of control, and Dean's hands squeeze all the more tightly. "It's okay, Cas. You're not gonna get sick again. Just relax."

Then there is a thud on the tile as Dean sits down next to him, never taking his hands away. Castiel focuses on that, on that warm, human touch, and slowly his breathing evens and his stomach calms. Dean takes his hands away, and Castiel does all right on his own.

Then Dean laughs, and says, "humanity's so glamorous, isn't it?", and everything starts again.

The words-- the notion behind them-- overwhelm him, and before he can prevent it he's leaned forward again, breathing heavy. His mouth feels numb and his eyes burn; something thick rises in his throat and, knowing beyond doubt that he's going to vomit again, he braces himself for it; he can't even bother to get to the toilet in time.

But he doesn't vomit. Instead the only difference from a moment ago is a sudden feeling of warmth and wetness on his cheeks, and Castiel realizes that he's weeping.

It's frustrating that all these new sensations are so confusing and so alike, so that he has a hard time keeping them straight. With both vomiting and weeping there is a sense of unease, pressure, restlessness, so that it's somewhat hard to predict which will come. He tries to focus. Weeping, he knows, involves water falling from the eyes, and when he has witnessed it in the past he's noted that it tends to illicit more sympathy than any other demonstration of emotion. He himself has wept before, though not often, and not for the purposes of garnering sympathy; rather, it has been an uncontrollable battlefield reaction to death and needless suffering. This is the first time, though, that he has ever wept for selfish reasons-- for his own confusion and frustration-- and knowing this somehow just makes the tears come faster. Remembering that it before brought him a modicum of comfort, he presses his hands against his abdomen and bows his head until all he can see is his knees.

Castiel does not want to be human. Humans are a race that he has destroyed, aided, pitied, envied, disparaged and respected, and they are so utterly _separate_ from himself that he knows every step towards joining them is a fundamental change, an irreversible loss. Eating and vomiting and weeping are all such physical acts that all Castiel wants to do is flee his body, return to the safety of Heaven-- although, Heaven isn't what it used to be anymore. Nothing is what is used to be, and nothing seems to be _where_ it's supposed to be: not Heaven, not Hell, not the contents of his stomach, and now Castiel realizes that he's gasping for air (another very human act) and without meaning to, he moans.

There's movement behind him, and then Dean reappears very close, pressing another tissue into his hand. "Wipe your eyes," Dean tells him, and Castiel does so. It's not for a moment that he remembers wiping his mouth before, and realizes that Dean intends for him to clear away his tears with the tissue. He does this, but finds it frustrating that new tears appear to replace the old ones. He orders his eyes to stop producing them, but there is no effect.

"You're okay now, Cas," Dean says quietly, and Castiel feels the by-now-familiar weight of his hand. At the contact, the flow of tears finally begins to taper off. How strange. He takes a deep breath. "This is all gonna take some getting used to," Dean continues. "But it won't be that bad again."

Castiel wants to ask him how he can say that, how he can possibly insinuate that being human is something that one can simply 'get used to', but he doesn't say anything, just nods. The tears have stopped falling now, for which he is grateful. "That was unpleasant," he confides to Dean, turning in time to see the human smile sadly.

"Thank you can stand up?" Dean asks, doing so himself. Truthfully Castiel has no idea how to gauge this, because he'd thought a few minutes ago that he would have been able to, but evidently wasn't. But he nods again, because he's feeling uncomfortably vulnerable sprawled on the cold, hard floor of the bathroom. Dean seems to sense this hesitation, and holds his hands out; Castiel pulls himself up by them automatically. Dean stays close as they make their way out to the main area of the motel unit, and because his knees feel unsteady, Castiel seats himself on the edge of the closer bed.

"Don't sit, lie down," Dean orders, so Castiel does so. It feels good to lie on his side, even better when he raises his knees slightly, and he can't help but wonder how one can possibly keep track of all these little human tricks. He's glad, not for the first time, for Dean's company, and for Dean's guidance. He would never figure all of it out on his own. He stares straight ahead at the wall, and Dean's voice comes again. "How do you feel?"

"Corporeal," Castiel replies, because after a moment of fishing around it's the only one-word answer that seems like it could really apply. Something has dawned on him. "I'll need to eat again tomorrow," he states flatly, and realizes that he could weep again, if he permitted himself. He doesn't.

"Yeah," Dean confirms. "Maybe we should try baby food or something."

Castiel finds himself unexpectedly offended at the notion that his body could only handle food prepared for infants, since it only reinforces his view of himself as vulnerable. "I liked rice," he tells Dean, which is true; the taste of rice had been acceptable. Originally. "At least, I thought I did," he adds. Dean laughs at that.

"You'll get the hang of it soon," he says. "And wait 'til you do. Eating's great, Cas."

Castiel doesn't like the sound of that, doesn't want to think anymore about the taste of rice or Dean's promise that other foods, such as pie, produce even greater sensations. "I don't want to derive pleasure from such a physical experience," he states flatly, as though it would make a difference.

"Hey, trust me," Dean replies, "you take the pleasure where you can." Castiel can't think of a single thing to say to that, so he doesn't. Instead he stares at the faded floral pattern of the wallpaper and tries to keep his mind blank. Even just weeks ago, he might have prayed, but this no longer gives him comfort.

Soon he realizes that the roses are blurring and, slightly worried, takes account of the rest of his body. He feels heavy, he notes, and his eyes are not hurting, per se, but neither do they feel as they normally do. He considers all of this and comes to the only possible conclusion he can. He calls Dean's name, hoping that he doesn't sound as afraid as he feels. Dean acknowledges him with a wordless noise. "I think I'm falling asleep," he tells him. He waits for Dean to tell him what to do, tricks to fix this like together they fixed his nausea but he realizes a moment before Dean replies that, as he'd once heard a human say, _the only way around it is through it_.

"Close your eyes and find out," Dean agrees.


End file.
